Never Let Me Go
by Mrs.Monster
Summary: A request for assistance from Sherlock leads to something that Molly never expected. Birthday gift for Nocturnias.


_**Title: Never Let Me Go**_

_**Author: Mrs. Monster**_

_**Pairing: Sherlock/Molly **_

_**Word count: 1573**_

_**Rating: NC-17 for smut**_

_**Written for sherlolly's birthday. I wrote you smut for your birthday, I hope that's not weird. A very happy birthday to you.**_

* * *

Sherlock had already been in the lab at Bart's Hospital when he'd gotten the call from Dimmock.

John was on a date and therefore, under threat of death, unavailable. It wasn't that Sherlock thought that John would _actually _resort to homicide should his banal attempts at romance be interrupted, but in all honesty, Sherlock didn't want to risk it. He knew that Anderson would have already pawed over all of the available evidence at the scene, and so he needed to find a temporary assistant that was intelligent enough to attempt to help him decipher the rest.

Really, only one person came to mind.

He found her in the morgue, in her desk chair, spinning in circles and staring at the ceiling.

"Molly." The forensic pathologist stopped spinning. "I need you."

"Does it require killing you again?" she asked without looking at him.

"Not this time, no."

Several years before, Molly had successfully helped him stage his death. She'd then hidden him in her flat during the two years it had taken him to bring down the criminal network of his most interesting, and dangerous, enemy to date- Jim Moriarty. In that time, she'd familiarized herself with him, dropping such annoying habits as not being able to form complete sentences while in his presence, or being unable to look him fully in the face. In exchange, she was now number three on his list of people that he could tolerate without wanting to throw them in the Thames, just after John and Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson would still hold the number three position if she didn't have the annoying habit of throwing his valuable experiments into the bin.

"What is it, then?"

"Dimmock needs my expertise for a triple homicide."

"And?"

"John is unavailable."

"And?"

Sherlock exhaled noisily. "And I require your assistance. Stop being deliberately dense, Molly."

She sat up in her chair, tucking one foot underneath the opposite leg. "I can't leave yet."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Your shift ends in five minutes."

"Exactly. Something important could come up."

"Is there a reason you're being difficult?"

"As it so happens, yes."

He narrowed his own eyes in response to her glare and waited.

"It begins with a _P_."

Oh. Right.

"Molly, would you _please _be ever so _kind _as to assist me at this crime scene. _Please_." He threw in the last for extra measure.

Popping up from her seat, Molly said, "I'd love to."

Barely containing his groan of exasperation, Sherlock considered demoting her back down to number four.

* * *

He'd had it figured in under two minutes. It was a fairly simple suicide/double murder scene, but still, he thought that he'd let Molly have her fun as well. He did, after all, drag her all the way out to Brixton. Sherlock could never quite tear his attention from Molly when she was in her element; using her mind to break the dead down to their basic science.

It was raining when they left the run down block of flats. Sherlock watched Molly scowl and cross her arms and knew that she was wishing that she had an umbrella, or at the very least a jacket. But as it was a freakishly hot London summer, she was wearing a rather thin, white sleeveless blouse. And, Sherlock noticed as the garment became soaked, a bright pink brassier underneath.

"Any other pointless endeavors you require my help with tonight, or can I go home now?" Molly asked waspishly. Stray hairs from her ponytail were plastered to her forehead and neck.

"I will accompany you."

"That's really not necessary-"

"Yes, actually. It is." His tone left no room for argument.

They took a cab across town to Molly's flat, and Sherlock followed her into the building and to her front door. He was fighting with himself, something that he spent and alarming amount of time doing while in the presence of his pathologist. Molly unlocked her front door, and then turned to face him. A _thank you _wasforming on her lips when Sherlock finally gave in, and kissed her.

When he'd gotten clean ten years ago, Sherlock had given everything up. All of the vices that he'd used to give himself scant periods of peace from his own chaotic mind; the drugs and the indiscriminate sex being just a few of them. Since then he'd clamped down on those urges, used the very mind he tried to escape from to keep himself under rigid control. And he'd never found anyone that made him want to break that control, until Molly.

Oh, he hadn't wanted her from the first; it had taken the _genius _years to actually see the woman under Molly's professional veneer. It had always been there, but he'd trained himself out of noticing. And then she'd killed him, in a manner of speaking. It was thanks to Molly that he'd been able to fool Moriarty's men into thinking he'd killed himself, and as a result she'd saved the lives of perhaps the three people that he was closest to in the universe. In the subsequent two years, she had been his anchor. The only familiar thing from a world that had been ripped away from him.

She had counted before; now she was an indispensable part of him.

Sherlock kissed her hard, the solid of his body pressing her back against the door. Molly squeaked a sound of surprise against his lips, and he had a moment of doubt before she relaxed against him and returned the kiss. Her blunt fingernails against his skin as she slid her fingers into his hair and moulded her lips to his. He felt the stirrings of desire inside of him like he hadn't experienced in more than a decade.

No, that was wrong. He'd never felt like this before.

Molly was the one to pull back first. "Sherlock, what-" she stopped herself, looking up at him, all wide dark eyes and kiss-swollen lips. He could read the question in the small crease between her brows.

As adept with words as he was, Sherlock didn't know if he could explain this. He needed her, he wanted her, but he couldn't tell her. "Molly, I- I don't-"

She was constantly surprising him with what she could pick up. For once, it wasn't a case of _seeing _but not _observing. _Molly had theuncanny ability to see right through him.

"It's alright," she said, leaning up to kiss him again. "Sherlock, it's alright."

Molly turned away from him to open the door, and pulled him by the hand into her flat. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sherlock was against her, insistent with his need. They were soaked from the rain that was still pounding down outside; Sherlock slid his hand under the heavy fall of Molly's hair, pressing her against the wall, shoulders rising as he bent to kiss her again.

She made the first move for clothes. Slightly shaking fingers worked the buttons of Sherlock's shirt after she'd pushed his now-rumpled black suit jacket to the hardwood floor the the tiny foyer. He shuddered at her hands against his bare chest, stripping him of the dark purple shirt. Giving him no time to reciprocate, Molly divested herself of the practically transparent shirt, leaving just hot pink against the pale tone of her skin.

Being the gentleman that he at times (when it was convenient) attempted to be, Sherlock asked, "Don't you want to go to the bedroom?"

Molly hurriedly shook her head. "No." She kicked her shoes off, popped the button on her trousers and shimmied out of them. Sherlock saw a scrap of pink that matched her bra in the tangle of her clothes on the floor. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this? Years, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt control of the situation slipping from his grasp as Molly reached for his trousers. Her fingers worked his belt buckle, the metal-on-metal sound loud against the background noise of their ragged breathing.

As he moved inside of her, hands flat against the wall on either side of her head, Sherlock lost himself. What was amazing, he mused, was that in this moment he also found himself.

* * *

They didn't wake until late the next morning. Molly was wrapped around his body and in a tangle of sheets. Bare skin slid and stuck, sweat beading in the late-summer heat.

"I think I should get back," Sherlock said, flat of his palm running down her bare side, feeling along the ridges and hollows of her ribs.

"No," Molly said on the cusp of a yawn.

Sherlock quirked a brow at her. "No?"

Molly shook her head, still heavy with the last dregs of sleep. "I'm never letting you go."

He kissed her forehead. "Ever sentimental."

"You'll learn to love it."

The thought that maybe he already did wasn't nearly as unsettling as it should have been.


End file.
